Joyride
by Laura W
Summary: Kathryn Janeway's Day Off. Set sometime in the fourth year of the journey. J/C.
1. Chapter 1

**Note**: Work was boring today, so this happened. There are three sections in all; I am editing the other two and hope to have them ready over the next couple of days. This one is a little bit...different. Enjoy.

**Joyride**

Some days, you wake up…and you _know_.

You yawn and stretch and feel the hum of the deck below your bed, the powerful pulse of your ship's heart far below in engineering. There's no hesitation or hitch, no telltale sign of damage or distress. You open your eyes and look outside the viewport and the stars are streaking by, brilliant arcs against the backdrop of deep space. Your ship is cruising along at warp 6, same as it was eight hours ago when you retired for the night, you're in a tranquil part of the quadrant and all is well with your personal Universe – or as well as it can be under these circumstances, you think, and you smile because you feel in your bones today will be a good day, a calm day, a commodity of some rarity here in the Delta Quadrant.

Some days, you wake up and your comm badge chirps and your smile turns to a crooked grin. _"Chakotay to Janeway,"_ he says in his soft, early-morning voice, and you wonder if he's programmed the computer to tell him when you stir every morning. Early on, you thought maybe he had convinced the replicator to alert him when it conjured up your first cup of coffee. A year or two later you wondered if he'd put motion detectors around your bed, because he usually called as soon as your feet hit the deck. Now, four years into your journey, you suspect he's conspired with the Doc to put medical sensors in your room because he seems to know the instant you wake up in the morning, and even when he's off the ship he calls to check in and check up and chat about everything and nothing at all.

Without leaving the bed, you reach out and tap your comm on the bedside table. "Janeway here," you say, as you do every morning, but today it is different. It is right and good to be talking to him so early in the morning. It always is, but today you let yourself feel it, you let the sense of peace flow through you. "How are you on this fine morning, Commander?"

You hear the smile and when you close your eyes, you can see it as if he were right beside you, not separated from you in his own rooms. _"Very well, thank you. You sound rested, Kathryn."_

"Benefit of a clear conscience," you respond.

_"First time for everything."_

You gasp in mock outrage. "Horrible man."

He chuckles. _"Just making an observation. I know it's your day off, but would you like come over for breakfast before I go relieve Baytart?"_

You hesitate. As tempted as you are to join him in his cramped but comfortable quarters and let his honey-sweet voice work its magic on you, it _is_ your day off, and what you'd really like to do is linger in the bathtub for most of the morning. "How about lunch instead?" you offer.

_"I have a working lunch with Joe Carey."_

You frown. "Working lunch" is Chakotay's occasional euphemism for "counseling session." You haven't spent much time with Carey lately; you know he misses his family but you wonder if something else is on the engineer's mind. "Everything all right?"

_"Today is his younger son's tenth birthday."_

A little of your good mood dissipates. "I see."

Chakotay is quick to reassure you. _"Joe's fine,"_ he says. _"He sent birthday wishes in the last data stream. He just wants to commemorate the occasion with a few friends."_

You smile again. Marking these milestones was Chakotay's idea, his way of making sure the crew understands that, even as time is marching by in the Delta Quadrant, their families back home are changing and evolving, too, and that none of you will be returning to the same people you left behind. He's been preparing you all for the differences, should you get the ship home soon. At first, these occasions were melancholy. Now they are sincere but usually glad, and you will not soon forget the rollicking 40th anniversary party the Delaney sisters threw for their faraway parents. "Cake and ice cream?"

_"Courtesy of Naomi and Sam. Join us?"_

"Maybe. I'll have to see where the day takes me."

_"I'm shocked, Kathryn, that you don't have your time planned to the last nanosecond."_

"I can be spontaneous when I want to be," you protest.

_"When you plan for it, you mean."_

"You really are a horrible man."

He laughs. _"I'd ask you to come over for dinner, but I'd hate to impose on this new, Freewheeling Kathryn."_

You laugh, too. "I'll let you know if I'm going to be available."

_"Enjoy your day, Captain."_

"Try not to blow up my ship, Commander."

_"No promises,"_ he says. _"I'll see you later. Chakotay out."_

Some days you wake up and you feel his voice, still sleep-warm and raspy, creep past your parameters and sneak inside your skin and you think, _someday. Someday._

You yawn and stretch again and slip from the bed without bothering to pull the comforter back into place. It _is_ your day off, and here of all places you allow yourself to slide just a little. You shrug into your robe and ask the replicator — politely, sweetly — for a cup of hot, black coffee, then you pad into the little bathroom and tell the computer to start filling your tub. At the bathroom mirror you stop and peer at your reflection. Usually you have to force yourself not to focus on the dark circles under your eyes and the lines around your mouth. But some days you wake up and look in the mirror and you see _you_ there, not just fortysomething you, not just Captain you, but young officer you, Cadet you, teenager you, pigtail you. You see a round face with freckles and missing front teeth. You look hard and see Admiral Janeway's daughter and Justin's fiancée, and Mark's. You look even deeper and you see someone else, too, some future you who is happy and healthy and home, finally home. _At home_, maybe, and maybe not alone. _Someday. Someday._

You turn away from the mirror and go collect your coffee. The first hot, delicious sip sends a tingle along your every nerve ending and you sigh in satisfaction. While keeping an ear open for the tub to finish, you amble over to your desk, coffee in hand, and activate your desktop console. There are crew evaluations to review and reports to read, and Neelix would like to meet with you to talk about the state of the cooktop in his galley _at your earliest convenience_, but it is your day off. You shunt the evaluations and reports to Chakotay's console even though you're certain they'll be back on your desk in padd form in the morning, probably with a note attached — _Nice try. C. —_ and you tell Neelix to take his concerns to…to Vorik. Yes. Then you grab a book, refill your coffee cup, and shed your nightclothes.

The bathwater is perfect. The book — Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, a slim volume presented to you for you last birthday — is perfect. The cup of coffee balanced on the edge of the tub is perfect. The day is perfect, at least so far, and you feel that it will stay that way, even though the Delta Quadrant has a tendency to upend your plans without warning.

An hour later you are back in your robe, standing in front of your closet. You contemplate the uniforms for a moment and then brush them aside in favor of the small selection of civilian clothes behind them. There was no need to bring more than a few pieces along on what was supposed to be a three-week mission, and so most of the pantsuits and skirts and dresses are things you replicated on the ship or picked up on alien worlds. You don't get to wear them very often, but today…today seems like a good day to banish the red and black in favor of something brighter. Today you want something happier. Today you want something…blue.

You flick aside one last pantsuit and there's the dress, the one with the short sleeves and the loose, low neck. It's been years since you last wore it, and never on the ship. You wonder if it even still fits. These years have taken their toll, so much so that you've toyed with the idea of lessening the ship's artificial gravity just to compensate. But when you pull the dress on you're pleased that it still flatters you as much as it did two years ago, if in a different way. Two years ago it showed off your slimness. Now it accentuates your figure, your still-small waist and fuller hips and breasts.

You look good in it.

You always did.

You wonder if he noticed.

You know he did.

For a long moment, you contemplate yourself in the full-length mirror. The dress might not be appropriate for wandering around the ship and maybe reading a book in the Airponics Bay, which are your only firm plans thus far, but later? Perhaps. Carefully, you shinny the dress over your head and hang it in the closet. Then you pull on casual pants and a dark-blue blouse — it's still a good day for blue — tuck your hair behind your ears, slip on a pair of comfortable flats and head out into the corridor with the volume of poetry tucked under your arm.

Alpha Shift personnel, the chronically late ones, hurry to their posts. Most of them slow down and make a half-hearted attempt to greet you, but you smile and wave them on. As much as you appreciate their attempts at courtesy, they have places to be and some of your Alpha Shift team leaders can be sticklers for punctuality.

At the same time, the last stragglers of Gamma Shift stroll through the corridors in twos and threes, on their way to the Mess Hall or the Holodecks or back to quarters. They smile and stop to talk, and you indulge them for once. When a young crewman tells you about his little sister back home who just applied to the Academy and is nervous about the entrance exam, you pass along a few words of wisdom for him to include in the next data stream. Watching him stroll down the corridor with a spring in his step, you are glad that you took the time to get to know them, all of them, better. You're grateful that they feel comfortable sharing their lives with you in spite of the command distance you must maintain.

You check in on an experiment that's been running in the xenobiology lab for the last two weeks. Xenobiology isn't one of your specialties, but you're intrigued by the hybridization technique Lieutenant Branly has developed. It might help you further your fresh food output, thereby lessening your dependence on replicated food and, therefore, the resources dedicated to keeping the replicators running at current capacity. You compliment Branly's ingenuity, tell her to keep you posted about her results, and move on to the Airponics Bay, nodding at smiling at the crew as you go.

The flowers in Airponics remind you of Kes, and for just a moment you allow yourself to feel the melancholy at her absence. Gently, you rub leaves and petals between your fingertips as you move among the bays. You reach into a kadera berry plant and pluck a handful of berries, then another. Chakotay's been coveting these berries for fresh pies, but they're just starting to ripen and you love them best at this sweet-tart stage. You haven't had breakfast yet, and surely Chakotay wouldn't begrudge you two handfuls of berries.

Three handfuls.

And a few more for good measure.

Then you find the comfortable chair Kes always left here for quiet moments of reflection and sit down to read more of _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. An immensely personal work, intended originally by the author as a private gift from wife to husband. When Chakotay gave it to you on the eve of Prixin, you almost didn't accept it, knowing what it contained. The earnest, vulnerable expression on his face swayed you and you thanked him for it honestly. Usually it rests on your bookshelf untouched. But some days you wake up and know the day ahead will be peaceful enough to contemplate the poetess' tender, measured words.

You skip over the first few sad and lonely sonnets in favor of the middle of the cycle, in which the poetess begins to accept her future husband's affection and praises his "vindicating grace." She chronicles the joys and frustrations of their love. Toward the end of the cycle, you stop reading. You've never turned to the final pages of this particular volume. You know, too, what they contain, and it is too soon. Instead, you press you fingertips to your lips and touch the opening lines of Sonnet XXXVIII, and you close the book.

_Someday. Someday._

The warmth and humidity and scents of fertile earth and growing things soothe you, and you close your eyes.

=/\=

-End of Part 1-


	2. Chapter 2

**NOTE:** Sorry this took longer than I hoped. Real Life got Real Weird and it's taken me this long to get back to it. Part 3 soon. Enjoy.

**"Joyride"**

**Part 2**

Some days you wake up and something has changed.

You bolt from the lounge chair, sure of two things: You have missed the Carey boy's birthday party, and your ship's warp drive has suddenly gone offline. You are wide awake in an instant, trotting out of Airponics and toward the nearest turbolift when you reach for your comm badge. "Janeway to Chakotay."

_"__Chakotay here_," he says, his voice now duty-crisp. _"What can I do for you?"_

"Why are we at all stop?"

_"__Ah, I didn't want to bother you with that. B'Elanna wants to test a few modifications to the impulse drive and maneuvering thrusters."_

You frown as the turbolift doors slide closed. "Did I sign off on the modifications?"

_"__And the tests. Last week, in fact." _The smile in his voice is as unmistakable as ever. _"It's all in the report you so thoughtfully transferred to me this morning, Kathryn,_" he says, and the use of your name over the comm is as much a clue to his whereabouts and state of mind as the telltale ping of a replicator.

"Making yourself at home in my Ready Room?" you tease, and manually command the lift to halt where it is.

_"__Don't worry; I'm using my own rations."_

You smile; when you return to your office in the morning, you are certain all the empty coffee cups you left behind will have been cleared and recycled, all the padds on your desk will be in neat piles, and there will be fresh flowers on your table. "So we're testing the modifications," you say, not quite a question.

_"__Not yet. The team has to _make_ the modifications first. Then we'll test."_

"And we're doing this right now?"

_"__I thought now was as good a time as any. No critical systems will be taken offline other than the drives, it's a quiet region of space, and frankly, B'Elanna's a little bored."_

You shudder. A bored B'Elanna is an unpredictable B'Elanna who will drive herself and everyone around her insane with the ship's every little shudder and whirr. "So you're keeping her busy."

_"__Busy, and out of your hair for the day. So feel free to return to Airponics and finish your nap."_

How does he always know where you are and what you've been up to? "The engine shutdown woke me up. I'm wide awake now." You exit the turbolift, take stock of your surroundings and realize exactly where you are on the ship. A plan begins to form and you grin in anticipation. You change directions mid-stride. "How much longer will we be at all stop?"

He pauses, and you assume he's consulting B'Elanna's report. _"Maybe forty-five minutes. Possibly less, depending on how fast they work."_

You dart down a side corridor. "Good."

His voice is wary. _"What are you up to, Kathryn?"_

"I'm going for a ride," you say, and head for the console outside the Aerowing's rear hatch.

_"__Of course you are." _If you could spare a moment in the middle of initializing the Aerowing's powerup sequence, you would close your eyes and imagine Chakotay's long-suffering sigh. _"I don't suppose you want any company?"_

"Not this time," you answer, tapping in commands and watching the indicator lights activate one by one. "Someone needs to remain behind and supervise the testing."

_"__You'll stay close?"_

You roll your eyes. "Within visual range, I promise. Prepare for launch sequence."

_"__Acknowledged, Captain. Have a good flight."_

You open the hatch and step into the Aerowing's cockpit. "I intend to."

The Captain's Yacht is a tiny thing, barely big enough for four people, but she's fast and maneuverable and yours, all yours. You chose a registry name for her but it was never printed on the hull, one of the small details you would have overseen after your three-week mission to the Badlands was over. You call her _Hypatia_. You have only taken her out a dozen times since this journey began, if that. But some days you wake up and you realize you need to get off _Voyager_, if only for half an hour.

You slide into the pilot's seat and initialize the launch sequence, relaying statuses and indicators back and forth to the Bridge. When Harry clears you for launch and releases the docking clamps that hold _Hypatia_ flush against _Voyager_'s belly, your little ship falls away and you are free and clear to navigate.

You engage her maneuvering thrusters and fly parallel to the underside of _Voyager_'s long saucer section and up over her bow, taking note of the few scars and other signs of damage. All in all, given everything the Delta Quadrant has thrown at her in the last four years, _Voyager_ is in surprisingly good shape. She's a fine ship, too, sleek and svelte. You thought so the first time you laid eyes on her, and you still do. You probably always will.

As you maneuver over the primary hull, you turn your little ship around to face her mother. You hold _Hypatia_ there and peer over the hull and into the Bridge. You nudge _Hypatia_ a little closer and you can just see them there, Chakotay standing in the center, Tom at the helm, Harry and Tuvok at their stations. From this distance they are miniscule, four handsome dolls. For an instant, you have the feeling that you could open _Voyager_'s upper hull like one of the models your father made for you when you were a girl, scoop out the four funny little men and hold them in the palm of your hand.

When you're certain you've been hovering there long enough for the boys to notice you, you flick all your running lights off and back on again.

Even though you can't make out his face, you're certain Chakotay has chuckled in response. You watch him turn and sit down in his chair and open the center Command console. You imagine his long fingers playing over the surface, and a second later all of _Voyager_'s running lights, sensor grids, and navigational beacons flash once and extinguish entirely.

Some days you wake up and you want to _play_.

You drop slightly back from _Voyager_'s primary hull and wait.

The lights around the front docking assembly fire up beneath you. You engage _Hypatia_'s maneuvering thrusters and zip down to it, mentally counting as you go.

_One._

_Two._

When you are within 30 meters of the assembly, you ping it once with _Hypatia_'s targeting sensors before Chakotay can deactivate the lights.

Point to you.

Half a second later, the phaser emitter strip on the starboard side of the primary hull lights up. Again, you manually plot the course and begin counting.

_One._

_Two._

Ping.

Another point to you.

You wait, and the lights in your own Ready Room flicker on. You wonder how he can do that from the Command console while you maneuver over the hull and ready your targeting sensors.

Another point to you.

You're about to comm Chakotay to tell him he's being too easy on you when the bussard collector on the port nacelle lights up. This is a more difficult and distant destination, particularly given that if you engage anything other than maneuvering thrusters at anything more than half power, he'll insist on winning the point.

This game has rules, after all.

It's a variation on a pilot's training exercise, with unpredictable targets and ever-smaller time allowances as the young pilot's skills progress. You and Chakotay stumbled into this modification of the exercise years ago when he was out in a shuttle surveying the work of an engineering crew in EVA suits. You commed your requests for exterior views every few minutes, then every minute, then every few seconds as you led your new First Officer on a merry chase around _Voyager_'s hull and nacelles. You teased him later about his piloting skills, but you knew he enjoyed the impromptu game as much as you did, and the next time you had the chance, you initiated it again. You rarely get to be the chaser in this game, but today, it seems, Chakotay is willing to indulge your whim.

You maneuver toward the bussard collector and begin counting.

_One._

_Two…_

_Three_.

Damn. You blink your running lights to concede his point, and wait.

The landing lights around the shuttle bay light up, and you move again, this time under the nacelle and the secondary hull and then back up toward the shuttle bay.

_One._

_Two_.

Ping.

A group of crewmen in the aft observation lounge look up and wave at _Hypatia._ You dip the Aerowing's nose in greeting. You notice an unsightly scar on the landing pad and make a mental note to have it repaired as soon as you can spare the time and resources. Before you can take a holoimage of the damage, the portside impulse engine assembly, re-supply assembly, and EVA hatch all light up in rapid succession. It's a tricky combination – duck, dart, swoop – but not too much for you and _Hypatia_ to handle.

You punch the controls and…

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

"Ha!" you shout, and slap the Aerowing's comm. "Too easy, Chakotay!"

_"__Is that a challenge, Captain?"_

"You're damn straight it is," you crow, and sit back in the pilot's chair to wait.

He doesn't disappoint you.

Upper sensor array pallet. Upper hull observation port. Auxiliary navigational deflector array. Forward docking assembly again, and then…

You and _Hypatia_ duck under the primary hull in time to ping the lower observation port, the Aerowing's own docking assembly, and the main navigational deflector assembly. Then the running lights all along the nacelles light up in a spiral pattern, around and around. You dive and swerve and ping them all, one by one, barely a second apart, whooping in delight with every point won and grumbling with every point conceded.

In the warm light of a nearby yellow dwarf, you fly the length of _Voyager_ half a dozen more times, over and under and around, playing this game of cat-and-mouse with Chakotay until you are both breathless with laughter. It occurs to you to wonder what the crew must think…but some days, you allow yourself to stop worrying, if only for a few happy moments.

With a shout of triumph, you complete a complex combination of maneuvers around _Voyager_'s lower hull and draw back to wait for your next target.

Half a minute passes.

A little worried, you thumb the comm. "Janeway to _Voyager_. Everything all right, Commander?"

His voice comes back businesslike and efficient. _"Stand by, Aerowing. I think Torres and Vorik are finished with the modifications."_

"Standing by." While you wait for his next comm, you pull up _Hypatia_'s telemetry from the game. She seemed a little sluggish on some of the tighter maneuvers to port; you make a mental note to have B'Elanna check up on it when she has a chance. _Hypatia_ isn't used very often, but it make sense to keep her in top shape in any case. The Delta Quadrant has a way of surprising you just when you let your guard down.

_"__Voyager to Aerowing_," Chakotay says. _"The modifications to the impulse engines and thrusters are finished, Captain. You can dock when you're ready and we'll start the testing phase."_

You smooth your palms over _Hypatia_'s controls. "Are we testing for maneuverability?"

_"__Yes, Captain. We'd planned a standard battery of maneuvers at sublight, ramping up to three-quarter impulse."_

"You've laid in a course?"

There's a slight pause on the other end of the comm. _"The Chief Navigator has recommended a course, Captain, but if you have something else in mind…"_

You grin. Some days you wake up and feel just a little bit wicked. "Is the Chief Navigator up for a bit of spontaneity?"

Tom's voice fills _Hypatia_'s cabin. _"Yes, ma'am!"_

You chuckle and pull up a map of the surrounding space. "There's a yellow dwarf 200,000 klicks away, Tom. Three planets in orbit. When I lose you, we'll rendezvous at the third planet out."

_"'__When?' Why, Captain, do I detect a hint of overconfidence?"_

You laugh and being inputting commands.

For the next ten minutes, you lead _Voyager_ through a thrilling series of loops and spins, climbs and dives, barrel rolls and mad, stomach-plunging drops. A light on the console warns you of possible loss of artificial gravity; you ignore it.

This new game isn't cat-and-mouse. It's fox and hound, and it's wonderful.

On a side viewscreen, you watch _Voyager_ behind you matching you move-for-move, both ships gleaming in the light of the looming yellow dwarf.

"How's she handling, Tom?"

_ "__Like the champ that she is, Captain."_

"So the maneuvering thrusters are a go?"

_ "__Yes, ma'am."_

"Commander?"

_"__Aye, Captain. All indicators are nominal, although I can't say the same for the crew. Neelix has already lodged a formal complaint."_

"I'm sure he has. I'm accelerating to half-impulse."

_"__Acknowledged. Helm?"_

_ "__Accelerating to half-impulse, aye. It's your move, Captain."_

More rolls and spins, more loops and dives, and always _Voyager_ stays true to course, close enough to bathe in your ion trail.

"Am I go for three-quarter impulse?"

_"__Aye, Captain. Go for acceleration."_

You lay in a high-speed combination of operations that will test both ships' maneuverability at sublight, and nudge the impulse engine to a higher setting.

Two quick course changes later, another voice fills _Hypatia_'s cabin.

_"__Torres to Bridge. What the hell is going on up there? Are we being flown by a crazed idiot, or is it just the one who's usually at the helm?"_

You hear Chakotay laugh quietly. _"Stand down, B'Elanna. The Captain is on the Aerowing leading us through some maneuverability tests."_

_ "__Well, someone please tell the Captain that if she doesn't knock it off, we're all going to wind up as a smear of protoplasm on the rear bulkhead. This ship's inertial dampeners were not meant to take this level of abuse."_

Chakotay clears his throat.

You ease _Hypatia_ to a slower speed. "Protoplasm on the rear bulkhead. Sounds unsightly," you say sweetly. "I'll knock it off."

_"__I, uh -"_

"It's all right, B'Elanna. I think my fun was about over anyway. Commander, I'm proceeding to the third planet. Rendezvous with me there as soon as the Chief Navigator and Chief Engineer are satisfied with the testing results."

_"__Acknowledged, Captain,"_ Chakotay says. "Rendezvous in approximately…ten minutes."

"Ten minutes, aye. Dinner later?"

Again, you hear the smile in Chakotay's voice. _"Your place or mine, Captain?"_

Not to be outdone, you adopt a pouting tone. "Mine, of course. What kind of Captain would I be if I didn't have a hot meal waiting for my Commander when he comes home from work?"

Tom's snort of laughter makes you blush, but it's exactly the reaction you were hoping for, so you let it slide. _"She's got you there, Commander."_

"Mind the helm, Lieutenant," you warn.

_"__Yes, ma'am. And might I just say: That was some fair flying, Captain. Fair flying."_

"Why, thank you, Mister Paris." You smile to yourself. Of all the members of your crew, Tom Paris is the most likely to know that you were one of the few cadets to ever turn down a spot on Nova Squadron, and to appreciate exactly what that means. "Fair flying to you as well. Janeway out."

You lay in a course, wriggle _Hypatia_ side-to-side in a pilot's universal gesture of farewell and head for the yellow dwarf. You sit back and sigh, content to watch the distant stars.

Some days you wake up and you just want to _soar_.

-END Part 2-


	3. Chapter 3

**NOTE:** Sorry this took a bit longer. I got sidetracked.

**"Joyride"**

**Part Three**

Some days you wake up and you _want._

Just…_want._

It's difficult to keep your days in the Delta Quadrant from becoming defined by what you lack. An adequate supply of dilithium. Replacement gelpacks. Parts for the damaged shuttles. A counselor.

There are also the things you always miss on long-term missions – fresh orange juice, news from home, your dog – but here in the Delta Quadrant you've added to that list, too, you've added things you never thought to miss before. Long vacations. Morning dew on Indiana fields. The ocean at high tide. A reason to dress to the nines and go out on the town. Fresh strawberries. Lazy Sunday mornings in bed. Real coffee.

A lover's touch.

While you dart around your quarters snatching up stray padds and coffee cups and uniform pieces and Naomi's drawings and all the other flotsam and jetsam of a busy Captain's life aboard a ship lost in the stars, you tell yourself over and over again that it's just dinner with the First Officer, that's all it is, it's simply a shared meal with a colleague and friend.

But it is so much more than that, and you know it.

In your mind, you set the scene. Flowers on the table. Something delicious from the replicator, maybe the curried peas and tofu dish he served you a few weeks ago, but not so spicy. Rice or noodles? Rice. Wine? Yes. Candles? Definitely.

It is a given that you will wear the blue dress.

You step into it for the second time today and you know you are stepping into a place where boundaries shift and definitions become fluid. A whisper in your mind warns you to be wary, but you ignore it with an ease that should probably alarm you. When you gaze at yourself in the mirror you see someone you didn't see this morning, someone maybe you _couldn't_ quite see before the quiet perfection of this day cleared your vision. You run your fingers through your hair and hope that Chakotay has decided to forego his uniform tonight, too.

Before you leave the bedroom, you make your bed. You tuck in the sheets and pull the comforter up over them, you fluff the pillows and smooth the wrinkles without allowing yourself to think about the implications of the act.

For once the replicator cooperates and conjures the food exactly the way you ordered it. You have just placed the covered dishes of curry and rice on the table and are lighting the candles when the door chime rings. A shiver of anticipation runs up and down your spine.

"Come on in," you call, and when the door slides open you take a deep, calming breath, step out from behind the table and look up.

He stands framed in the light of the corridor, frozen in place and blocking the door, an undeniable presence, sometimes overwhelming in his solidity and strength. His face is in shadow thanks to the candlelit dimness of your quarters, but you know, you _feel_, even from across the room, that he has stopped short on an indrawn breath. "Chakotay," you say.

He rocks backwards and ducks his head. His habit of trying to center himself in the face of the unexpected is as familiar to you as the sound of his voice on the comm every morning. "Kathryn," he says. He steps into the room and lets the door slide closed behind him…but he pauses there, his head still inclined toward the floor. When he looks up at you from lowered lids, it is your turn to draw in a sharp breath of anticipation. "You look," he begins, and hesitates as if searching for the appropriate word. After a second of indecision he gives his head a small shake and smiles. "You look…peaceful," he finally says, and you both laugh off the momentary awkwardness.

With a lopsided grin, you look him over from head to toe, taking in his hair, still damp from a post-shift shower, his dark red shirt tucked into comfortable brown trousers, his favorite boots, which you know will soon be discarded under your dinner table. "You look peaceful, too," you say, repeating his evasion back to him. "Very peaceful indeed."

He chuckles and seats himself in his usual place at your table. "What's for dinner?"

The banter over food and wine is as easy as it always is with him. It is a game of give and take, of call and response, that you look forward to whenever you can both spare the time. He teases you about finally coaxing the replicator to relinquish an edible dinner; you reply that you threatened it with recalibration by Borg if it didn't comply tonight of all nights.

Later, you replicate a second carafe of wine and retire to the sitting area of your quarters. It is only after you have both seated yourself on your small sofa that you notice you have both removed your shoes.

You fill both glasses with Cabernet, fold your feet underneath you, half-turn to face him, and sigh. "I could get used to this," you breathe, and he raises an eyebrow at you.

"You can always have a day off if you want it, Kathryn," he says. "You know I would never begrudge you that."

"It's not the day off," you reply without really thinking the words through. You wave your hand vaguely to take in the candles, the stillness of your quarters, the calm space beyond the viewport that allowed you the luxury of a day off-duty. "It's this," you say. "This quiet. This moment of…" You stop, unable to find the words.

"This lack of chaos and terror?" he offers with a smile.

You grin. "I guess that's it. We don't get these days very often."

"You do seem very relaxed."

You eye him over the rim of your wineglass. "So do you."

He nods once and sips his wine. "It was a successful shift," he says, as if in explanation.

"Oh?"

He hums an affirmation and throws his arm over the back of the sofa, almost but not quite around your shoulders. "B'Elanna's modifications raised the efficiency of the impulse engines by 31%, Tom's pleased with the enhanced maneuvering thrusters, Harry didn't get the shakes at Ops, and Tuvok didn't frown any more than usual."

"A very successful day, then."

"That's not the half of it," he continues. "My Captain got to have a little fun, and she let me play along."

Your eyes meet and the space between you is suddenly charged. "I always want you to play along. You know that."

"I know." He sips his wine, holding your gaze, and you are mesmerized. "It's nice to hear it outright, though."

"I don't say it enough?"

"No. And…neither do I."

For an instant, just an instant, you allow yourself to acknowledge that the conversation has absolutely nothing to do with the day's activities. "You show me," you whisper. "Every day you show me. That's all I will ever need."

His eyes rake over the wineglass in your hand, the neckline of your dress, the sudden brightness of your eyes. "Are you sure about that?"

No. No, _of course _you're not sure. Not out here, half a universe away from everything you have ever known and everyone you have ever loved…until now.

Because some days you wake up and you want what you can't have so badly, so deeply, that it's an unrelenting ache inside you, a visceral longing that can't be fulfilled, that you can't even _ask_ to be fulfilled, not here, not yet, not now. You gather yourself and raise your chin. "Yes. Are you?"

He nods once and you know that he has heard your thoughts as surely as if they were his own. "As long as I know…yes. It's enough."

You exhale, long and slow, and stare into his eyes.

You know his face in all its moods and hues, you know it by sun and candlelight, and nothing, nothing in the Universe, is more dear to you.

You polish off the second carafe of wine in near silence, listening to each other breathe. When both glasses are empty and the clock chimes out Alpha Shift's midnight, he takes your hand in his own, he curls himself over it and raises it just enough to brush a phantom kiss to your fingertips, so ephemeral and so fleeting that you can both deny it ever happened.

But it did, and you will not soon forget it.

It will stay with you always.

Because some days you wake up and you _know_.

Someday, _someday_, the hand that he kissed will be the hand curled around his neck, will be the hand tangled in his hair as you hold him close and beseech him to press soft kisses to your neck.

You know that someday the hand on his shoulder will be the hand that pushes aside his shirt and caresses his heart, his good heart, where so much is hidden in plain sight.

You know that someday the hand that releases him out into the corridor will be the hand that draws him into your arms, into your life, into the few solitary spaces of your soul that he doesn't already occupy.

_Someday, someday._

The Delta Quadrant has taken so much from you both, but it has given you these hours and this day, this perfect, scintillating day, in which you have felt the overwhelming delight of being known, of being loved, of being alive.

As you extinguish the candles you know that no matter what happens tomorrow, today the journey has given you joy.

And today, it is enough.

-END Part 3-

_Okay. Maybe there should be an epilogue. Let me just think about it a bit._


	4. Chapter 4

**NOTE:** Finally got around to figuring out how this was really supposed to end. Enjoy.

**"Joyride," part 4**

One day you wake up…and it's all over.

There's no engine rumble beneath your bed, no streaming starlight above it. When you groan and roll over and rest your feet on the oak floor, there's no cheerful chirp of a commbadge, no sleep-rough voice to bid you a good morning.

One day you wake up to the stillness of an empty house, to the watery light of a northern California sunrise, to silence.

Six weeks removed from _Voyager_, you should be used to this. Yesterday you barely noticed the quiet because you had places to go and people to see at Headquarters. But today…today is different. Today the book on _Voyager_ has been well and truly closed. The crew have scattered, your meager belongings have been offloaded from the ship, and for the first time in seven years your time is entirely your own.

You have a whole month of nothing ahead of you. No meetings, no appearances, no plans. Starfleet politely requested that you not leave the planet in case your reassignment comes through early, but even that was given only as a strong suggestion, not a direct order.

A whole month of uninterrupted, unplanned leave. You have no idea what to do with it.

Head bowed, toes curled against the chilly oak floor, you sit on the edge of your bed and contemplate your options. Your mother has invited you to spend the next four weeks at your childhood home in Indiana and even though you suspect you'll wind up there eventually, today is not the day for it. Tom and B'Elanna have hinted that they'd love a long visit with their former Captain, but their own debriefings ended just two weeks ago. It seems too soon to encroach on their bonding time with their newborn daughter. Owen and Lucy Paris, Mark Johnson and his lovely wife, your Academy roommate, even Harry Kim's mother, bless her earnest heart, have all extended open invitations to you.

Although every invitation holds its particular charms, not one of them sounds appealing to you today.

You could go for a run or a swim. Starfleet Medical has hinted very strongly that in the weeks ahead you should have plenty of time to look to your physical health, time that you could rarely spare on _Voyager_. Your immediate response to that suggestion, suppressed only with difficulty, would have probably earned you a formal reprimand.

You won't be going for a run or a swim any time soon. A walk? Perhaps.

You shoulder into a robe and slippers and wander into the quiet kitchen.

Coffee. Toast. Oatmeal.

Nothing tastes right anymore.

Intellectually, you know that the disconnect is entirely one of habit. After seven years of it, your palate is accustomed to the slight blandness of replicated food. You know that this coffee, fresh from a roaster at the end of your block, is better than anything produced by _Voyager_'s replicators – or Neelix's kitchen. The bread and jam, handmade in a bakery near the Embarcadero, are as delicious as anything you've ever eaten. Even the oatmeal, topped with milk and real brown sugar, is wholesome and filling.

But it isn't right.

_Nothing_ is right.

The bed in this rented townhouse is too soft, there are too many people everywhere you go on Earth, and the Terran sun, even on this misty morning, is too bright.

One day you wake up and know that the triumph and satisfaction you felt upon the completion of your mission of a lifetime are about to be replaced by an emptiness you have forgotten how to fill.

It's going to be overwhelming, that emptiness. You've felt it before, once when your fiancé and father died, once when your ship was crossing a starless void and you spent too much time alone with your own thoughts, your own guilt.

Both times, someone you loved saved you from yourself.

This time, you are certain you will have to be your own rescuer.

You push the bowl and plate away and rise from the table.

You know what you will do today.

It'll probably land you in a Starfleet Counselor's office, but one day you wake up and you just don't care what anybody else thinks.

An hour later, after a fast shower, a brisk walk across the city that you mentally count as "exercise," and intense arguments with three different Starfleet flunkies, you are standing on the bridge of your first, and probably only, command.

She's hanging in low-Earth orbit while Starfleet decides what to do with her. You were surprised when they didn't immediately drag her to Spacedock, until you realized that the only reason they've kept her in orbit is because it's easier for Starfleet's Public Relations wing to get unobstructed holoimages of her this way. You suspect it's the same reason they don't want to you leave the planet, no matter the reason they claimed.

The ship is quiet, manned only by a handful of techs. You sent them scattering as soon as you boarded. No one dared accompany you to the Bridge.

You stare at Earth on the forward viewscreen and feel…nothing. You don't know exactly what you expected to feel, but you expected to feel _something_. Brows knit together in confusion, you leave the Bridge.

Every strike of your uniform boots in the empty corridors sounds hollow.

Deck to deck, room to room, you wander with no destination in mind, brushing your fingertips along the walls, listening for the echo of familiar voices, until you find yourself in a particular place, and you stop, half-afraid to acknowledge why your path has led you here.

One day you wake up…and you need to _escape._

_Hypatia_ hasn't been used in a least a year. You input the powerup sequence out of order twice before you finally get it right and the Aerowing comes to life. The hatch opens with a groan and you climb aboard and slide into the pilot's seat.

They will _definitely_ run you in for counseling for this.

After a deep, calming breath, you thumb the comm. "Aerowing to _Voyager_."

The harried, nervous tech who beamed you aboard answers. _"Yes, Captain?"_

"Release the Aerowing's docking clamps, Lieutenant."

There is a long pause on the comm, then the young tech again. His voice is apologetic. _"Captain, I am obligated by regulations to ask if you have logged a flight plan."_

You inhale through your nose, exhale from your parted lips, and respond. "I have not logged a flight plan, Lieutenant. Please release the docking clamps."

_"__Stand by, Captain." _Another long pause, and then the sound of a quick, quiet conversation in a far corner of the room. You rest your hands on the navigation console and will yourself to remain calm. When the tech's voice comes back, he sounds…chastened. _"Prepare for release, Captain,"_ he says.

A few seconds later, you and _Hypatia_ are free.

You steer the Aerowing along the underside of the primary and secondary hulls, up over the shuttlebay, and over the length of her, aft to fore. Even with all the modifications and additions, _Voyager_ is still a pretty little ship, sleek and svelte, if a little worse for wear. She's still got life in her. You've implored Starfleet not to mothball her – or worse, turn her into a museum – but you're not sure anyone listened. As partial fallout from the war, Starfleet is putting more stock in even smaller, quicker ships, vessels armed to the teeth and built for action. The bigger, Constitution-class ships will probably be decommissioned soon, but eventually Starfleet will come after the smaller ships, too. _Voyager_ is less than 10 years old and even though she's fully operational, she's seen as much action as any other ship in the fleet. You can't believe they'll put her out to pasture, but deep down, you suspect the decision has already been made.

Up over the primary hull you fly. You turn _Hypatia_ around to face her mother one last time and hover there in the silence. You stare at her, feeling nothing but a vague sense of loss and disorientation, here among these now-unfamiliar stars.

You could go to Vulcan and see how Tuvok's doing. No one on Vulcan would care that you can't feel anything anymore. They'd probably appreciate your tasteful behavior.

You could go to Bajor and lock yourself away in a mountaintop temple until you figure out who you are.

You could go to one of the colonies, get drunk, and be somebody else.

You could go to Risa, find a willing partner and figure out how to feel again.

While you're hanging there in the Aerowing, numbly contemplating your next move, all of _Voyager_'s running lights, sensor grids, and navigational beacons flash once and extinguish entirely.

You blink, certain you did not see what you know you just saw.

You hold your breath, and a few seconds later, it happens again. Running lights, sensor grids, navigational beacons, even the Bridge lights flash once, dim, and stay off.

One day you wake up and the mass of data you've kept in your head for the last seven years, the balance sheet of what you've gained and what you've lost, suddenly does not add up the way you always thought it would. You realize you were proceeding from a faulty assumption all along and it claws at you, it climbs into your skin and sinks into your bones and now you feel, now you feel _everything_, and you slam your hand against the console to activate _Hypatia_'s running lights.

The primary sensor array activates, and you zip toward it, your finger already on the targeting sensor control.

Ping.

Forward docking assembly.

Ping.

Bussard collector.

Ping.

He never acknowledges a point and neither do you. It's not a game this time, it's a fierce competition. It's the argument you never had, played out over the length and breadth of the command you shared. It's a journey back in time, from strangers to friends to colleagues to allies to enemies to strangers.

Shuttlebay, engine intercooler, reaction control thrusters.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

He just keeps giving you targets, and you just keep firing at them.

Cargo hatch.

Ping.

Forward torpedo assembly.

Ping.

Rudy Ransom.

Ping.

Kashyk.

Ping.

The Hirogen.

Ping.

The Borg.

Ping.

You fly up over the primary hull and the Bridge lights activate. You draw close enough to see him standing there in the center alone, hands hanging loosely at his sides, chin raised, offering you the ultimate target.

Loneliness, emptiness, powerlessness.

Ping, ping, ping.

You blast them out of existence, the flames rising up in your mind with every hit.

Guilt, betrayal, sorrow.

Rules, regulations, parameters.

Words left unspoken, dreams unfulfilled, opportunities missed.

He leaves the lights on for a full minute while you score hit after hit after hit, until your hands are bruised from smashing them against the console and you sit back in your chair, spent.

He turns and extinguishes the Bridge lights, then flashes all the running lights on the ship, acknowledging your victory.

His voice on the comm, familiar, roughened with emotion, makes you close your eyes. _"Are you finished?"_

Reluctantly, you thumb the channel open. "Yes."

_"__Why don't you come in and we'll talk?"_

"I don't need to talk."

You hear the grim smile in his voice and grit your teeth against it. _"Kathryn, you just shot me enough times to take out a regiment of Klingon warriors in full body armor. Come on in. I'll meet you at the docking port."_

You do not answer.

_"__The replicators are working and the coffee's hot."_

With a sigh, you steer _Hypatia_ back to her home.

True to his word, he meets you at the hatch with a cup of coffee in each hand. Irrationally, childishly, you refuse to leave _Hypatia_ and force him to join you in the cockpit. This is a discussion you want to have in your territory, and there is not a single nook or cranny of _Voyager_ that does not hold some memory of him.

He slides into the co-pilot's seat and gives you a long appraising look. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he offers you a half shrug. "New uniform," he explains. "It takes some getting used to when you've seen someone wearing something else almost every day."

You nod once, giving him the same look of appraisal. All at once, you take in the now- graying hair, the dark, expressive eyes, the full Commander's pips on his collar, before you turn away. "I thought they'd probably send a counselor to meet me," you say.

"If you were anyone else, they would have." Chakotay sips his coffee. "The techs have been told to alert the lead Counselor's office if any of us tries to board _Voyager_."

You feel a little surge of anger. "I didn't know that."

"Neither did I, until I came here."

Surprised, you turn to face him again. "You did? Why?"

"The bed in the apartment they assigned me to didn't feel right. I just wanted a good night's sleep in my own bed."

"In a familiar place."

"Yes."

You sip your coffee, and it is perfect. "When was that?"

"A week ago, the night after my debriefing was over. I think I just…" He rubs his chin. "I didn't know what to do with myself. I came up here to sleep, and eight hours later when I disembarked, the lead Counselor met me in the transporter room."

"Why didn't he meet me?"

Chakotay smiles. "I asked if they'd alert me when you came aboard like this. I wasn't sure they would, but I got the call and got here as fast as I could." He inclines his head toward the Aerowing's console. "I was the one who released the docking clamps."

That explains the conversation you heard over the comm. "So Counselor Crall is waiting for me somewhere?"

"Probably."

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, carefully avoiding each other's eyes. You want to know why he asked to be alerted when you came aboard, but you're not quite ready to open that discussion. "I have a month of leave," you offer instead.

"So do I." He toys with his coffee cup. "I would ask about your debriefings, but I imagine they were about the same as mine, only worse."

"That's probably a fair assessment."

"I hated going over all of that," he murmurs. "And I hated that they were doing the same thing to all of us."

"I felt like I had to relive every mistake."

He nods. "But it must have turned out okay, if they cut you loose for a month."

"It turned out about the way I expected."

"Do you know where you're going to be reassigned?"

"Not officially."

He quirks an eyebrow at you. "Unofficially?"

"A little bird tells me there's a promotion and a desk job in my future."

He smiles. "A little bird named Paris?"

"The same." You nod toward the pips on his collar. "Congratulations on your reinstatement, by the way."

"Thank you. I think."

You smirk at that. You knew he was going to be reinstated before he did, and you knew he'd be ambivalent about it. "Do you know where you're going?"

"Not really. Starfleet's floated a couple of options that I don't hate."

You can't help the chuckle that rises up in your throat. "That sounds promising."

He shifts in his seat. "I'm also thinking about resigning again."

Surprised, you turn to look at him again. "Really? Why?"

"I talked to an old friend who's faculty at the University of Washington now. She thinks I have enough material to fast-track a dissertation and a PhD in anthropology. Maybe I could teach somewhere."

Head tilted to one side, you consider this. "'Professor Chakotay.' Has a certain ring."

He gives you a grin. "Doesn't it?" He plucks at the front of his new uniform. "And I'm just not sure I want to be at Starfleet's whim anymore."

"No?"

He shakes his head. "I've lived a more or less itinerant life since I was a teenager. This," he nods toward _Voyager_, "is the closest thing I've had to a stable home in thirty years. I think I'd like to re-create that stability for myself, but I'm not sure I can if I stay in Starfleet." He sips his coffee. "Not the way Starfleet currently is, anyway. I asked about the Academy, but I got a very lukewarm response. Given my rank and my experience, I think they'd send me back out instead. But being on a starship doesn't have quite the appeal it once did for me."

You nod and turn away. "So what will you do?"

"I haven't decided." He pauses, and when his voice returns, it is very soft. "That all depends."

"On what?" you ask automatically, and when he doesn't answer, you turn to meet his eyes in the Aerowing's dim cabin. "On what?" you repeat, quietly. And then, before you can stop it, another question passes your lips. "On Seven?"

He blinks once, twice, and raises his coffee cup in front of him like a shield. "I… No. Nothing like that. Actually, Seven and I, we… I mean…" He frowns and you quirk an eyebrow at him. You have never seen him at quite such a loss for words, and it is almost endearing. "Who told you?"

You roll your eyes. "Anyone who saw you at the family celebration didn't need to be told anything, Chakotay."

"So I've been informed." His face reddens in embarrassment. "By a _bat'leth_ wielding Engineer."

"Ouch."

"You have no idea." He drums his fingers on the console. "That night was one of the last times we were together," he says. "Did you know that?"

No. No, you didn't know that, you couldn't have known that, because ever since that night you haven't been able to bring yourself to talk to either of them, not even in the line of duty, because it just hurt too damn much. But you don't say any of that. You can't, because suddenly, you can't breathe.

At your silence, he continues. "After that night, I took a long, hard look at myself and tried to reimagine an Earth-based future with her in it. I couldn't." He chuckles. "The funny thing was, Seven was doing the same thing. Before I could figure out how to tell her I didn't want to see her romantically anymore, she came to me and informed me she wished to dissolve our pair bond." You smile. "And like an idiot, I tried to talk her out of it for the second time, even though I had already decided she was right."

You wave a hand at him. "Behold the male ego."

He shakes his head. "It was…not pretty."

In spite of yourself, you chuckle. "I can only imagine."

He cringes. "I'd rather you didn't."

At this, you laugh out loud, and a second later he joins you. The sound of your shared mirth rings through the little vessel, and it is right and good. It is perfect.

When you have both calmed down, you reach out and pat his arm. "Chakotay, I'm sorry that didn't work out the way you wanted it to."

He stares at your hand on his arm, white against the dark fabric of his uniform. "Are you really sorry, or are you just saying that to be polite?"

Once again, you find yourself unable to speak.

He places his empty coffee cup on the deck beside his chair and leans forward, elbows on his knees, peering up at your face, and suddenly you are sitting in the ready room discussing matters of policy, you are in sickbay willing him to be all right, you are staring at him across a candlelit table, you are studying his profile in the afternoon sunlight of an impossibly distant planet. "Why did you come here today, Kathryn?" he asks. "Why did you come back to _Voyager_?"

You draw in a great breath, and maybe for the first time since your return to the Alpha Quadrant, you find your voice.

"Because one day I woke up and I looked in the mirror and I saw someone there I didn't expect to see. I saw someone who lost the two people she loved most in all the Universe because she thought their happiness was more important than her own. I saw a lonely old woman driven to erase her own worst mistakes, and I swore, I _swore_, that I would not become her. But she was there anyway. She was there, Chakotay, and I didn't know how to _not_ become her. I thought if I came here, the last place where I was truly happy, I could shake her off and figure out how to start over again."

"And have you? Shaken her off?"

"I don't know. I think maybe I've made a start." You roll the coffee cup between your palms, and a line of poetry wanders through your thoughts. _My future will not copy fair my past_. It has become your greatest fear, that the next phase of your life will never be as rewarding as those years on _Voyager_. But, like the poetess, you have looked up from your melancholy only to be surprised by a quiet, unexpected presence. "Why did _you_ come today?"

"To find you." You wait for him to elaborate. He shakes his head once. "She told me what I was like. The Admiral. She told me that the longer we stayed out there, the more our friendship suffered until it finally broke. But she wouldn't tell me why." You start to speak but he holds a hand up to stop you. "Don't. Even if you know what happened, don't tell me. It's not something I ever want to think about."

"Why?"

"Because I can't imagine a future where we're not friends, Kathryn. I can't imagine any version of me who would stop fighting for any version of you." He takes a deep breath. "I can't imagine any version of me who would stop _loving_ any version of you."

You clench your hands around the coffee cup. "You almost did."

"But I came to my senses. And as much as you don't want to become her…I don't want to become _him_."

"How do we keep it from happening?"

He settles back in his chair. "We go to the counseling Starfleet suggests. We spend the next month scrutinizing the last seven years of our lives in the presence of compassionate strangers who have no idea what it was really like out there. Or…"

You wait, but no elaboration is forthcoming. He just stares at you with a thoughtful expression. "Or?" you prompt.

A slow grin rolls across his face. There's a mischief in his eyes you haven't seen in years, and it ignites an unexpected but cheerful little flame in your belly. He taps his fingertips on the navigation console. "What kind of range does this thing have?"

"What?" you gasp.

He swivels his chair around to give the console a good look. "How long can we travel at high warp without having to refuel or restock? A day? A week?"

"Two days, maybe three. But I don't-"

He pulls up a star chart. "Two days gets us to Risa, no problem. We can hide out there for a week, then move on to… Look, right there." He points to the chart. "Berengaria Seven. Let's go see the dragons, Kathryn."

"Chakotay, what the hell-"

"Do the replicators work?" He pops up from his chair and heads to the back of the craft while you sit there openmouthed. "If they don't we can raid _Voyager_ for supplies and get out before they notice anything's missing." He turns and smirks at you. "Strictly a Maquis operation, of course."

His manic energy worries you. You rise and follow him to the back of the craft. "What's gotten into you, Chakotay? Are you proposing we steal the Aerowing?"

He stops pawing through a supply cabinet and drops his hands to his sides, his back turned to you. "We're not stealing anything, Kathryn," he says. "We're taking back what's ours. Our friendship, our lives, our future. The Delta Quadrant gave us each other, but then took seven years away. Seven years that we should have been together." His shoulders droop. "I want some of that time back, even if it's only a month. A month together might be just enough to keep me from becoming the man who let you go, and to keep you from becoming the woman who let me do it. Is that too much to ask, Kathryn? That we at least _try_?"

One day you wake up and you know nothing will ever be the same.

One day you wake up and you know you can have what you want, if only you can find the courage to reach out and take it.

One day you wake up and you know it's here, it's finally here, this moment you wished for and counted on and almost lost forever.

_Someday. Someday._

The little flame in your belly leaps up into your heart. As if across a great gulf of time and distance, you reach out to him. He half turns to you, his expression wary, and you place your hand on his shoulder. Slowly, you slide it up and curl it around the back of his neck. "I've never seen the dragons," you whisper, and tangle your fingers into his hair.

He leans toward you so quickly that he misses the first time. His kiss lands half on your forehead, half on your hair, and you laugh and pull him down to finally face you.

_My love,_ you think, surprised that you are capable of any coherent thought with his lips soft against your neck. _My own._

One day you wake up and you know…as surely as you have ever known anything…you know that the joyride you thought was over has just begun.

-THE END-

_Yeah, it needed this._


End file.
